


The Absent Glasses

by JenTheSweetie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 03:25:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenTheSweetie/pseuds/JenTheSweetie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Case?"  </i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Sherlock glared at him from the door, one hand on the doorknob.  "Don't make me repeat myself.  We're leaving in three minutes."  He picked up a pair of trousers from the floor and threw them at John's head.  "Are you listening to me, John?  Shall I fetch you a jumper as well or do you think you can manage?"</i></p><p>Sherlock's latest case might just be interfering with an important day of the year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Absent Glasses

**Author's Note:**

> For JF. Thank you for your endless willingness to discuss Sherlock, your understanding of the way my mind works, and of course, all the selfies. - JO

"Wake up, John. There's a case."

John sat straight up in bed, breathing deeply. He shook his head.

"Case?" 

Sherlock glared at him from the door, one hand on the doorknob. "Don't make me repeat myself. We're leaving in three minutes." He picked up a pair of trousers from the floor and threw them at John's head. "Are you listening to me, John? Shall I fetch you a jumper as well or do you think you can manage?"

"You bloody - all right, I'm getting up, I'm getting up," John said, and kicked off the blankets. "It's freezing, would you turn the heat on?"

"No need, we probably won't be back all day," Sherlock said, and turned and bolted down the stairs.

John sighed. "Of course we won't," he muttered under his breath, and shivered as he opened his drawers in search of clean clothes. "Never mind that it's - oh my god, Sherlock, what have you done with all my trousers? Is this a _human_ bone?"

-

Sherlock gave the cabbie an address as John slid into the backseat.

"So what has Lestrade dragged us out of bed for this time?" John asked, watching London roll by out the window.

"Home invasion turned abduction," Sherlock said, typing into his mobile furiously. 

"Today?" John said. "How dreadful."

"Yes, of course today," Sherlock said. "Reported missing at 2 am, which means the crime scene has already been tampered with for more than six hours. I'm sure it won't be in any fit state to examine."

"Why'd they call you?" 

"The missing woman is the daughter of a conservative MP and the fiancée of a junior minister. Normally they would wait for a ransom note, but there have been a spate of kidnappings on the continent - two in France, two in Portugal, one in Germany - that suggest other motives."

"I haven't heard about any - "

"Of course not, they've been almost entirely hushed up to avoid spreading the idea around. Copycats are so dreadfully boring, they’re always _begging_ to be caught.” Sherlock sounded put out.

“So what makes you think this kidnapping might be connected to the ones in Europe?”

“In the last three months, five children of prominent politicians have been taken from their homes by unknown enemies. They simply disappear, without a trace, in the night. Within hours, the kidnappers contact the politician in question - four fathers and one mother - and demand that they resign from their position in the government. All have complied, and the children have been returned unharmed."

"Jesus," John said. "That's horrible."

"It's brilliant," Sherlock said. "Disrupting democracy by kidnapping and thus subverting the system altogether? It's proving to be a highly effective form of political machination."

"Maybe don't say the words 'brilliant' and 'kidnapping' together in front of anyone else, yeah?" John said.

Sherlock ignored him. "This one's different, though. The victim is 27 years old, and all of the children on the continent were younger than seven - kidnapping children from their beds is decidedly easier than abducting adults. The victim's father in this case is _not_ a powerful politician, but a rather unpopular MP who will likely lose his seat in the next election. And most importantly, the kidnappers have yet to send any messages at all to the parents. Either their MO is different or we have a copycat whose information is wrong. Yes, right here is fine," Sherlock said to the cabbie. 

The cab pulled up in front of a posh building in Mayfair that was surrounded by police cars. Sherlock climbed from the car, John scrambling behind him, and ducked under the police tape.

"Are you a resident of this building?" a police officer said, rushing up to them. 

"They're with me," Lestrade said, appearing from inside the lobby of the building and waving Sherlock and John over. "Fifth floor." 

Sherlock swept into the lift and pressed the button for floor five. "Any message yet from the kidnappers?"

"Nothing," Lestrade said as the doors slid shut. "Victim's name is Jess Griffiths. Her fiancé was expecting a call from her when she got home from being out with some friends, and when she didn't call, he came over around midnight. Found the door broken open and signs of a struggle inside."

"No one saw anything? The doorman?" John asked.

"This building doesn't have a doorman, obviously," Sherlock said. Lestrade shrugged. 

"No witnesses yet, but we're still interviewing all the neighbors, and they're pulling security footage," he said. The doors dinged on the 5th floor and opened. "Her fiancé and her mum are here, do you want to - "

"No," Sherlock said, striding down the hall to the open door. He began to inspect the doorframe, then disappeared into the flat.

"I'll talk to them," John said, following Lestrade. The flat was well-decorated, but there were signs that there had been a struggle: several broken picture frames littered the floor after being knocked off a table in the entry, a potted plant was overturned in the corner of the sitting room, and a crystal lamp was shattered on the hardwood floor next to the television. An older woman with red-rimmed eyes and a blonde man who looked like he belonged on a glossy magazine cover were huddled together on the couch. The man was holding his iPhone, which was open to a close-up picture of a pretty blonde woman.

“Any updates, Detective Inspector?” the man asked Lestrade as he and John approached.

“Not yet,” Lestrade said. “This is John Watson, he’s going to ask you a few questions. John, this is Mrs. Griffiths, and this is Jess’s fiancé, Chris.”

“Er,” John said. “Right.” He glanced at Sherlock, who was now observing the kitchen table intently. “So, Chris, you discovered the flat broken into last night, correct? Do you live here as well?”

Chris opened his mouth to respond, but the older woman interjected, “Oh, no, not at all. They’re not married yet.”

Chris smiled tightly. “That’s right,” he said, and John could almost hear the impatience in his voice. “I’ll move in once we’re married in April. Jess always calls me before she goes to sleep, and she texted me around 11 saying she’d arrived home from the pub, but never called. I came over around 1:30 and found the flat like this.”

“You’ve got to find her,” Mrs. Griffiths continued. “It’s such a terrible day for this to happen - not that there’s a good day, but I’ve just got so much to do today, of course, and we’re having several MPs and their families over tonight, and we simply can’t cancel, we’ve had it planned for ages.” John raised his eyebrows, and Chris frowned down at his hands.

“Was anything missing from the flat?” Sherlock called from the hallway.

“A few pieces of jewelry,” Chris said, glancing back at Sherlock. “They were all recent birthday and anniversary gifts. And her engagement ring, of course.”

“Three carats,” Mrs. Griffiths said sadly, shaking her head.

“But they left behind an expensive laptop and tablet, her wallet, and her brand new iPhone, all of which were visible on countertops,” Lestrade said. Sherlock picked up the tablet and pressed the button to turn it on. He scrolled through a few pages, then set it down and continued down the hall.

“And the most expensive jewelry,” Mrs. Griffiths said. “Family heirlooms and the like - she kept them in an antique jewelry box in her wardrobe, and it’s all still there, thank god.” 

“Naturally,” Sherlock murmured, and disappeared into the bedroom. 

“Naturally?” Chris said, looking back and forth between John and door Sherlock had just disappeared through. “What does he mean, naturally?”

“Not sure,” John said apologetically. “Shall I go and find out?” He followed Sherlock into the expansive bedroom. The top of a bureau had been cleared off onto the floor, and two drawers had been pulled out and rifled through, but it was otherwise undisturbed. “Have you found something, then?” John asked under his breath.

“Where are her glasses?” Sherlock said, whirling around to face John and holding up an empty Dolce & Gabbana glasses case.

“Her - what, sorry?”

“Her glasses, John, her glasses,” Sherlock snapped. “Why is the case empty?” He stepped into the doorway and held the case up to Chris, Mrs. Griffiths, and Lestrade. “Does she wear glasses?”

“We got her contacts when she was fourteen,” Mrs. Griffiths said. “She looks dreadful in glasses, she never wears them.”

“So what does she have glasses for?” Sherlock asked.

“She wears them once in a while, if her eyes are bothering her,” Chris said. “Or - I don’t know - when she travels, she wears them to the airport sometimes.”

Sherlock tossed the empty case onto the bed and pulled out his phone. John sighed. 

“My husband mentioned that there were some politician’s children kidnapped in France and Portugal,” Mrs. Griffiths said. “Do you think this could have anything to do with that? Because Robert won’t be bullied into resigning, you know - “

“Susan, do you hear what you’re saying?” Chris burst out, turning to his future mother-in-law. “You’re talking about Jess’s _life_ here.”

“Well they haven’t been _killing_ those children, have they?” Mrs. Griffiths said, sniffing delicately. 

“Not yet they haven’t, but that’s because their parents all did what they were told!” Chris said. 

“We’re not sure that this has anything to do with the kidnappings in Europe,” Lestrade said. “And those aren’t even supposed to be public knowledge, really.”

“Clear the flat,” Sherlock said loudly, sticking his phone back into his pocket.

“Excuse me?” Lestrade said. “Look, you don’t give the orders around here, you know - “

“Remove all of your officers from the building,” Sherlock continued as if Lestrade hadn’t even spoken. “Clear the scene, take the tape down, all of it. We need to make it appear as if everyone’s left.”

“Why would we do that?” Lestrade said, crossing his arms. “What, do you think the kidnappers are going to waltz right back in here?”

“Yes, I do,” Sherlock said. “There’s something they’ve forgotten.”

-

“You know, when you said ‘clear the flat’, I thought that meant we’d get to go home, too,” John said, shifting uncomfortably to lean against the inside wall of the police van. 

Sherlock spared John a withering look, then turned back to the live security footage streaming directly from the hallway outside Jess Griffith’s flat. 

“My wife’s going to kill me if I miss dinner,” Lestrade said. “Her parents are coming over, and she always says I manage to make myself scarce when they’re around. Not that it’s an entirely unfounded accusation, but - “

“She’s going to kill you because you’re busy doing your job?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “This is why I’m married to my work.”

John threw his hands up in the air in exasperation and turned to Lestrade. “I don’t think he knows that it’s - “

“Who’s that?” Sherlock barked, pointing to the screen. Everyone who had crowded into the police van shoved forward to stare at the video feed as a dark-haired young man stepped out of the lift and walked quickly down the hall to Jess Griffith’s front door. He looked around nervously, then pushed the unsecured door open. John turned to Chris and Mrs. Griffiths, who were both frowning down at the screen.

“I haven’t the slightest,” Chris said. 

“I know him,” Mrs. Griffiths said, her brow furrowing. “That’s Bastien Marchand. He was a dear friend of Jess’s at Oxford, but I thought he’d moved home a few years ago, he’s originally from - “

“France,” Sherlock finished, and Mrs. Griffiths turned toward him.

“Yes,” she said faintly. “How did you know that?“

“Come, John,” Sherlock said, ignoring Mrs. Griffiths completely. “We’re getting a cab.”

“Where are you going?” Lestrade barked as Sherlock opened the back door to the van. “Aren’t we going in there? Does this friend know what’s going on?”

“He’ll only be in the flat a moment,” Sherlock said. Almost as if he’d been cued, Bastien Marchand slipped out of the front door of the flat and shut the door behind him. Lestrade stared at the screen, stunned. “You’re going to follow him in an unmarked police car,” Sherlock continued, climbing out of the van gracefully. “Don’t talk to him and don’t let him see you’re following. We’ll see you there.”

“We’ll see you _where_?” Lestrade asked as John clambered out of the van and nearly tripped over his feet.

“St Pancras, of course!” Sherlock said, slamming the van door behind him.

“Of course,” John said, rolling his eyes and jogging to catch up as Sherlock took off toward the main road. “D’you know where she is, then?” he called as Sherlock hailed a cab.

Sherlock opened the door to the cab and spoke to the cabbie. “St Pancras, quickly. We’ve got a train to catch.”

-

Sherlock was silent as the cabbie wound through the crowded streets. 

“You could’ve mentioned to her family if you know she’s all right, you know,” John said as Sherlock stared out the window.

“Her mother isn’t that worried, and her fiancé will only be disappointed,” Sherlock replied. 

“Yes, well, if someone _you_ cared about were missing, wouldn’t you like to hear that they were okay?” John said. He shook his head. “What am I saying, you’ve never been worried in your - “

“John, if you were missing, I wouldn’t be sitting around waiting to hear what had become of you, I’d be out finding you,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

“That’s not the point,” John said. He cleared his throat. “You still should have said something.”

“Well, they’ll see for themselves in a moment if they’ve got anything to worry about,” Sherlock said as the cab pulled up in front of the train station. He paid the fare as John slid across the seat and climbed out.

“Thank you, sir,” the cabbie called as Sherlock climbed out. “Have a very happy - “

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock said, slamming the door behind him. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked past the families milling about waiting to pick up loved ones who’d come in by train. John squeezed by a woman dragging a massive roller suitcase to catch up with Sherlock just as Lestrade pulled up in an unmarked police car and jumped out, followed closely by Jess Griffiths’ mother and fiancé.

“Sherlock, you mind telling us what we’re doing here?” Lestrade said, hurrying through the crowd. “You were right that Bastien Marchand got out here as well, but I’ve lost him in the crowd.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said, pulling out his phone and peering at it again. “This way.” He marched purposefully through the station. “Hurry up, we’ve only got ten minutes.”

“Is Jess here?” Chris asked, pushing past John to grab Sherlock’s elbow. “They’re forcing her onto a train?”

“No one’s forcing her to do anything,” Sherlock said.

“What are you talking about?” Chris said. “Her flat has been broken into, she's been _kidnapped_ \- “

“Her flat had been made to _look_ like it's been broken into,” Sherlock corrected, turning a corner and leading them toward the security station that separated the Eurostar entrance from the rest of the station. “Obviously, someone wanted it to look like she’d been taken by force. But the screws in the chain on her door had been loosened - it didn’t take much force at all to rip the chain from the door.”

“But everything was disturbed - she put up a fight,“ Mrs. Griffiths said, her heels clicking on the floor as she tried to keep up.

“An overturned plant and some picture frames knocked off the table? Please,” Sherlock said. “No kidnapper would leave such an obvious path from the front door. The kidnappers in the European cases didn’t leave so much as an unlocked door behind them - they wanted it to look like the child had simply vanished. Why would they change their strategy so much this time?”

They reached the security station.

“Tickets, please,” the security guard said, holding up a hand. Lestrade pulled out his wallet and showed his police identification to the guard. “You can get through, then, but not the rest,” the guard said.

“There’s a woman who’s been kidnapped,” Sherlock said, arranging his face into a look of panic that was, to John’s practiced eye, almost painfully fake - Sherlock wasn’t, as far as John could tell, even _capable_ of panic. “If we don’t hurry, they’ll kill her!” 

“ _What_?” Chris gasped, lurching forward. “Oh my god - “

“But you said,“ John began. Sherlock shot him a look, and John closed his mouth. 

“You heard the man,” Lestrade barked. “Go on, then!” Sherlock barged past the guard and through the security station, and John, Lestrade, Mrs. Griffiths and Chris followed close behind.

“Are they going to kill her?” Chris said, all the color drained from his face.

“What?” Sherlock said. “Oh, no. I should think not.” He looked up at the ‘Departure Times’ screen, then took off to the right. 

“So what are we doing at the Eurostar station?” Lestrade asked.

“The kidnappers wouldn’t change their strategy so drastically if it were the same group who has been abducting the children of European politicians,” Sherlock said, as if he hadn’t been interrupted at all. “So what does that tell us?”

“That it’s not the same kidnappers?” John suggested.

“Precisely,” Sherlock said. “Now, you said that some of the victim’s newest jewelry had disappeared, but the antiques, the family heirlooms, they were left behind. Surely they’re more valuable? Of course they are, but also far easier to trace - they couldn’t be sold for months, not after a high-profile abduction.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem like they were really after money, anyway,” Lestrade said as they approached the platform.

“They were only interested in items they could dispose of quickly, for a bit of cash,” Sherlock agreed. “Isn’t it obvious? Combined with the brand new iPhone and the missing eyeglasses - “

“Wait, what have her glasses got to do with it?” Chris interjected.

“And the iPhone - I bought that for her just last week, what about it?” Mrs. Griffiths added.

“Her new iPhone was left behind, on the counter, even though it could have been wiped and sold easily,” Sherlock said. “But it was a decoy - she didn’t need it, because her old one was still working just fine. You assumed she sold it or threw it away, but what if she kept it? And the glasses - both contacts and glasses are difficult to replace without visiting an eye doctor, but glasses are permanent, and they would work better for someone who wouldn’t mind changing her look for a bit.”

“What are you saying?” Mrs. Griffiths said as Lestrade showed his ID to the conductor and they were waved on board. “Are you - do you think Jess left on her own?”

Sherlock pulled opened the door to the second car, which had a small plaque that read ‘Business Premier.’ “She didn’t just leave of her own accord,” Sherlock said. “She set up the entire thing to make it look like she’d been kidnapped so she could run away to Paris with Bastien Marchand.”

“What?” Chris gasped as they all piled into the Business Premier car.

“Ah, there she is,” Sherlock said triumphantly, pointing to two women sitting in the front of the car, one blonde and one brunette. “And there’s Bas - oh,” Sherlock said. “Well. Isn’t that interesting. There’s always something, isn’t there?”

“Jess!” Chris cried. The blonde woman jumped out of her seat like she’d been shocked and whirled around. It was Jess Griffiths, her eyes wide with shock.

“How did you find me?” she hissed, horrified. 

“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Griffiths snapped as Chris stumbled forward and wrapped Jess in a hug.

“Obvious,” Sherlock muttered, and John glared at him.

“Care to explain yourself, young lady?” Lestrade said, crossing his arms. “We’ve got half the force looking for you.”

“Oh, God,” Jess said. She pulled away from Chris and looked down at the dark-haired woman seated next to her. “Oh, my God, Gabby.”

“Just tell zem,” the dark-haired woman said with a thick French accent.

“Tell us _what_?” Chris said, looking from Jess to the dark-haired woman to Sherlock. “What’s going on? Jess, we thought you’d been kidnapped!”

“I - I wasn’t kidnapped,” Jess said, her cheeks turning bright red. 

“Clearly,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Your parents are conservative, highly traditional, and have been pressuring you to get married since you were in school. Your father set you up with your fiancé, and he fell in love with you right away. It seemed like it would be _simple_ , easier, just to go along with it.” Sherlock pursed his lips like he’d tasted a lemon. “But you never were in love with him, and with your wedding approaching, you knew you had to get out. Your lover - _not_ Bastien Marchand, it turns out, can’t believe I missed that, but perhaps his sister? - suggested you run away to Paris together. Your tablet was set to display in French even though you likely haven’t taken a class since uni, you were trying to brush up before the big move. But you didn’t know how to tell your parents and fiance that you were in love with a _woman_.” 

Mrs. Griffiths covered her mouth with her hands and stared at the dark-haired woman named Gabby.

“Is this true?” she whispered through her fingers.

“Mum,” Jess said, a bit desperately. “Mum, don’t freak out - “

“Your father, a loud-mouth and a braggart, no doubt, told you as much as he knew - which wasn’t much - about the politically-motivated kidnappings in Europe. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to make yourself scarce. With Bastien Marchand’s help, you staged a kidnapping and attempted to flee London with nothing but the clothes on your back, your old phone, your eyeglasses, and some of your jewelry to sell to cover your expenses.”

“But how did you know I’d be here?” Jess said, scowling deeply at Sherlock. 

“You couldn’t fly, not with a missing persons report filed,” Sherlock said. “But there’s one thing you can’t leave the country without no matter what.”

“A passport,” John said.

“Exactly,” Sherlock said. “You couldn’t take it with you when you were ‘kidnapped’, it would be far too obvious if someone discovered it missing, so you waited until the police left and sent sent Bastien back to get it. This was the first train after he brought it to you.”

“Brilliant,” John said. “Sorry. I meant awful.”

“Jess,” Chris said slowly. “You don’t - you don’t want to marry me?”

“I’m sorry,” Jess said, her face drawn with guilt. “I really am. You’re so lovely, and I thought - I thought maybe we could make it work. But Gabrielle and I - we’ve been in love for years, ever since she came to visit Bastien at school. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Oh dear god,” Mrs. Griffiths murmured. “You - how _could_ you? When your father hears about this - “

“I’m an _adult_ ,” Jess snapped, turning to her mother furiously. “Father doesn’t have a say in any of it, and neither do you. This is _your_ fault, Mum. You and your expectations and your demands and your disgusting, bigoted, old-fashioned ideas. You drove me to this!”

“Don’t speak to _me_ about _disgusting_ , Jessica Lynn Griffiths,” Mrs. Griffiths said. “Not while you sit there with a _woman_ \- “

“Now, that’s unnecessary,” John interrupted. 

“And today, of all days - “ Mrs. Griffith’s began, but Sherlock clapped his hands together and startled her into silence.

“Well, I think I’ve finished here,” he said. “Lestrade, you’ll want to cancel your missing persons report, as Jess Griffiths is clearly not missing. You might want to charge her with making a false report, but if your people had any powers of observation at all, they might have noticed that the scene in her apartment was obviously a set-up and avoided the whole thing, so I’m not really sure she’s to blame.” He raised his eyebrows at Jess and Mrs. Griffiths, who both looked ready to begin shouting again. “Best of luck with your family drama.” Sherlock turned on his heel and left the train car just as several security guards and police officers boarded the train. John pushed through them to follow him.

“A _woman_ ,” Sherlock was muttering as John caught up with him. “I thought it just must be that the boy was a musician or an artist of some sort, not up to the parents’ standards, but oh, this was much better - “

“Bit sad though, isn’t it?” John said as they followed a man pushing a pram out of the station. “She had to pretend she’d been kidnapped to get away from the life her parents wanted her to live. She must have been desperate, don’t you think?”

“Oh, certainly,” Sherlock said, throwing out his hand for a cab. “Desperate times and all of that. Dull, really - if I’d had to pretend to be kidnapped every time I didn’t want to do what my family wanted, Mycroft would be up to his eyeballs in missing persons reports.” John chuckled as they climbed into the cab.

They rode home in silence as the gray afternoon slid into early evening. When they arrived back at 221b, John unlocked the door and trudged up the stairs, already feeling excited to make a cup of tea and relax in front of the telly. He’d missed dinner at Harry’s, not that he was too disappointed about that, but the Chinese takeaway places ought to be open today - 

“Oh, boys, you’re back!” Mrs. Hudson said, coming to the foot of the stairs behind them and holding a heaping plate of food covered with a layer of aluminium foil. “Have you had a nice day?”

“Case,” Sherlock said, pushing past John and pulling off his scarf.

“Oh, pity,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Well, I’ve saved you a plate, anyway, and some biscuits.” She held up the plate.

“Mrs. Hudson, you are an angel,” John said, walking back down the stairs and kissing Mrs. Hudson on the cheek. “You’ve made my evening. Thank you.”

“Of course, dear,” she said, smiling. “Happy Christmas to the both of you.”

“Happy Christmas,” John said for the first time all day, taking the plate and turning to go back up the stairs. Sherlock was frozen on the second-from-the-top step. “Sherlock - “

“Happy Christmas,” Sherlock said stiffly. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” He hurried up the final step and swept into his room, slamming the door behind him. John rolled his eyes - well, more Christmas dinner for him. He set the plate down on the table and went to find a clean fork and knife, and was dividing the roast turkey and cranberries and wondering if Sherlock would even eat tonight or if he could take the lion’s share of potatoes when Sherlock emerged from his bedroom. 

“It’s Christmas,” he said, standing in the doorway his his hands clasped behind his back.

“Indeed it is,” John said, glancing up at him. “Forgot, did you?”

“A bit,” Sherlock admitted. “Did we have any plans?”

“Molly’s for lunch, Harry’s for an early dinner,” John said, picking up one of the biscuits and taking a bite - it was Christmas, after all, and damn it, he could have dessert first if he wanted to. “Missed them both.”

“I see,” Sherlock said. “I’m - I’m sorry.”

John shrugged. “Not your fault. We had a case, and the work comes first.”

“Right,” Sherlock said. 

“The rest of this is yours,” John said, gesturing to the divided plate. “If you’d like it.”

“I got you this,” Sherlock said, pulling a small parcel wrapped in red and silver paper from behind his back. 

“Oh,” John said. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Sherlock said, holding it out to John.

“I - er - I didn’t get you anything,” John said, a bit awkwardly. “I didn’t think you’d ever - well - so I stopped. You’ve never bought me a present before. Three Christmases, as many birthdays - “

“There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?” Sherlock said. John took the parcel. “I thought you might like these.”

"Well, I can’t say I’m not surprised," John said, tearing the wrapping off the parcel. "I'm - Sherlock, this is really - oh. Socks?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "Do you not like them?"

John pulled out the socks. They were striped gray and green cashmere and probably cost as much the rest of John's socks put together, and then some. "Er. Of course. They're lovely. I - what made you think socks would be a good gift?"

"Your feet get cold," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes. 

"Oh," John said. "I suppose they do sometimes, yes." 

"When we're on cases, especially," Sherlock clarified. "You complain about it and stamp your feet."

"Do I?" John asked. 

"And in the flat," Sherlock said. "Your feet are always cold, especially in the morning. It's probably because you wear cheap socks and you don't replace them until they've got holes."

"Can’t deny that," John said. "Well. Thanks. That's very thoughtful of you." 

"It's practical," Sherlock said.

"Or that," John said. Far be it from him to accuse Sherlock Holmes of thoughtfulness.

There was a beat. Sherlock continued to study John, and John continued to rub his new socks between his fingers.

"I wanted to say," Sherlock began, at the same moment John said, "I'm really glad we," and they both cut themselves off.

"Go on," John said.

"No, you," Sherlock said.

John took a deep breath. "I'm glad we're spending Christmas together," he said, all in one breath. "Just - yes. After all of the - well. It's nice." John rubbed the back of his neck.

Sherlock smiled. "Indeed."

"What did you want to say?" John said.

"Nothing," Sherlock said, brushing an invisible speck of lint from his shirt. “I was going to say the same thing.”

“Right,” John said slowly. “Well, then. I’ll put these on, shall I?”

“If you’d like,” Sherlock said. John leaned against the counter and pulled on the new socks, then picked up his plate and carried it into the sitting room. Sherlock wandered in after him and picked up his violin.

“Any requests?” he asked, resting the bow just above the strings.

John paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “You don’t take requests.”

“It’s Christmas,” Sherlock said.

“All right then,” John said. “How about O Come All Ye Faithful.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Well, if you don’t like my requests, don’t _ask_ \- “

“I wasn’t complaining!” Sherlock said, and began to play the opening bars. John hummed along, took a bite of turkey, flexed his warm toes and settled in for the first Christmas in a very long time that he thought he might actually enjoy.


End file.
